


From the Battered Journal of Remus J. Lupin

by Kerichi



Series: Tonks and Remus Tales [13]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, F/M, Romance, moments and memories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-06
Updated: 2017-07-17
Packaged: 2018-10-28 18:44:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 22
Words: 13,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10837155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kerichi/pseuds/Kerichi
Summary: My affinity to the journal compels me to keep it at hand. I, too, am rather shabby, and yet there are pages of my life still unwritten.Remus reflects on his life and love for Tonks.





	1. Reflections

 

_August, 1995_

 

When I was Nymphadora's age, being part of the Order of the Phoenix entailed many sleepless nights. I can’t count the times James or Sirius and I kept Death Eaters under survelliance or stood vigil to protect those targeted by them. They’re too numerous. I do recall that after missions I never felt as drained and sluggish as I have today.

My age is showing, and yet, instead of lying next to the woman I love and drifting off to sleep, I’m writing in the journal bestowed on my first day at Hogwarts by the only man who has ever trusted me unreservedly.

The leather binding has become faded and battered, but the enchanted pages, as Dumbledore promised, have never filled. My affinity to the journal compels me to keep it at hand. I, too, am rather shabby, and yet there are pages of my life still unwritten.

Chronicling the events of my day, once viewed as a chore, is now a pleasure. Nymphadora's love has brought vibrant colour into a world dulled by the pain of loss and disappointment. I look at her, sprawled uninhibitedly on the bed, and smile. Not a polite smile, used to keep others at a distance. Not a wolfish grin, either, however appropriate that would be considering our recent lovemaking. This is a different smile. One I don’t have to see in a mirror to recognise.

It’s a smile of joy, similar to the one that spread across my face when I realised I had true friends at Hogwarts, my feelings comparable to what I felt whenever I stepped onto the King's Cross platform to find my mother waving excitedly, eyes shining with gladness over my return. The emotions that thoughts of friends and family engender are akin but different to my feelings for Nymphadora.

Perhaps it is because we are one flesh, as priests say, or she is my mate as the wolf inside me growls contentedly. Regardless, the love we share makes me smile.

Seneca, the Roman philosopher and playwright I’ve spent many an unemployed hour reading, said,  _VERUM GAUDIUM RES SEVERA EST—_ true joy is a serious thing. I believe it is, not in a solemn way, but important, and filled with smiles and laughter.

My thoughts are slowing along with the motion of my quill. If I were writing for posterity, I would force myself to continue this entry, detailing our night duty and the events of this morning. Since I’m writing in the manner Dumbledore advised to gain emotional perspective and celebrate the small wonders of life, I shall leave such an account for another day.

Across the room, a small, unhappy sound tells me that Nymphadora has reached out in sleep and found her lover missing. It will give me great satisfaction to enfold her in my arms and hear her sigh happily. Another Roman friend of mine, Horace, would have approved, saying,  _DUM LOQUIMUR FUGERIT INVIDA AETAS: CARPE DIEM._

**While we're speaking, jealous time flies: seize the day.**


	2. Limerick

 

_August , 1995_

 

 

_For her this rhyme is penned, whose luminous eyes, brightly expressive as the twins of Leda . . . ._

Since my love is peering over my shoulder, she may read the answer to her question. Leda was the wife of King Tyndareus of Sparta and the mother of two famous sets of twins—Helen of Troy and Clytemnestra, and the Gemini twins, Castor and Pollux. As to which set of twins Edgar Allan Poe was referring when he wrote the poem Valentine, I would think both.

Especially if he was drunk at the time.

Perhaps it is my own relaxed state which sets my mind to recalling poetry likely written in vino veritas. The wine consumed to keep Sirius company during the party earlier has emboldened me to attempt poetry of my own.

The nymph behind me, clothed in waist-length red hair, distracted me from my purpose earlier with her wiles. Even now, after passion has been spent, she presses her body to mine and breaths in my ear. Laughs, too, before attempting to rationalise her boldness. Nymphadora claims that she is innocently sitting in bed while I am the one leaning back against her. On the surface, that is true.

However, as I am being delightfully poked by certain points of her anatomy, I beg to differ. Innocence has nothing to do with it. Despite the way she giggles freely as a child, it is a woman who has enchanted me. A woman who shall, in the words of Poe, find her own sweet name, that nestling lies, upon the page, enwrapped from every reader.

My love is asking questions again. I have to admit I do not know why the words were penned in that exact manner. Enwrapped, engrossed, is more commonly used with 'in.' Wrapped in thought, or rapt in wonder.

Slender limbs are giving a visual demonstration of wrapped around. A fine phrase, and handy as a shapely leg to prop my journal upon.

The feminine huff of indignation I hear makes me chuckle. I'm amused by the idea of Nymphadora meekly existing at anyone's convenience. Ouch. If my penmanship is shaky at this moment, it is because I am trying to write while being pinched. Of course I do not consider her an inconvenient woman. She suits me perfectly.

Kisses are even more detrimental than pinches to legible handwriting. I prefer them by far, though, and I am sorely tempted to abandon my poetic endeavor. Toss the journal aside and let kisses lead to other pleasurable activity.

I shall resist temptation and remain fixed upon my course. Nymphadora once wrote me a touching limerick on the back of a pub menu, and I have sworn to return the sentiment.

If I recall correctly, the pattern is AABBA, da Dum da da Dum da da Dum on three lines, and da Dum da da Dum on two. Simple.

 

My love is a girl Nymphadora

Whose curves outshine Greek amphora

To touch, smooth and fine

To taste, sparkling wine

To fill, is my iucundita

 

Yes, iucundita, pronounced "you-kun-di-ta", means pleasure in Latin, and I stressed the first and last syllables to fit the pattern. Since my darling splinched genius as the last stressed syllable in her own poem, she can hardly object to my literary license.

Nymphadora is breathing in my ear again, whispering how she plans to show her admiration once I put down this journal.

As I said before, we are perfectly suited.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not advising drinking to spur creativity and wasn't even hopped up on caffeine when I wrote this! My only goal was to entertain. This entry corresponds to chapter 11 of Moonlight and Shadow.


	3. Moonrise

 

_September, 1995_

I usually write in my journal at night to reflect upon the events of the day before I sleep. On full moons, I must adjust my schedule. Cut short my day, the way I have always feared my furry little problem would cut short my life…or someone else's.

After the attack, my mother reprimanded me every time I demonstrated anger. I had to control the beast within me, she said. Even when I was not transformed, if I bit someone, or scratched them, they would bear the marks forever. The wounds would be cursed, as I was cursed.

When our family had picnics at the park and I found children willing to play, I went out of my way to be agreeable. If a playmate wanted to play with my toy, I gave it to them. If I was on a swing and they asked for a turn, I immediately complied.

If I encountered two children having a row, I backed away. If another child tried to start a row with me, I ran. I knew if I accidentally harmed someone, I would be locked away like a dangerous animal.

Werewolves always made the front page of all the newspapers when they were arrested. There were never any photographs of the transformed monsters, but artists supplied drawings that seemed to jump out from the page.

I would stare in horrified fascination until my mum snatched the _Daily Prophet_ out of my hands. She always sent me to my room after confiscating the paper.

I was supposed to reflect on the consequences of allowing the beast of anger to control my actions. Instead, I would stare at my reflection in the mirror and think, was that what I looked like every full moon? Were my eyes eerily human in a wolf's face, claws and teeth bared, ready to kill and maim anyone who crossed my path?

It was hard to believe. I was so ordinary. I curled my fingers into claws and snarled, yet still could never picture what I looked like as a werewolf. I told myself it was because the monster I became once a month had nothing to do with who I really was.

During my years at Hogwarts, I did my best to be a model student. I made high marks and was never in a fight.

I was also never made a target by Slytherins because James and Sirius acted as lightning rods, drawing all hostility. I was grounded and protected by their friendship.

Perhaps that is why Sirius's fifth year “prank” disturbed me so greatly. He was drunk and not thinking straight when he sent Snape to the secret passage beneath the Whomping Willow, but still. If I’d harmed Snape, I would have spent the rest of my life in Azkaban. If I had killed him, my life would have been forfeit.

I was plagued by nightmares for years afterwards.

My memories of those moments were hazy at best, but my dreams were sharply in focus. In most, I dreamt that I mauled Snape and was dragged away with his curses ringing in my ears. In the worst ones, I killed Snape and woke shuddering as a Dementor approached to give me a “kiss.”

The fears that followed me into my dreams last night were different than those in the past. I didn’t worry on my own behalf. I feared for Nymphadora.

I dreamt that my partner had bypassed Kreacher and Sirius to be with me. In my nightmare, she walked boldly into the attic and dropped to her knees before the circle of containment. With a recklessness that made my heart seize in dread, she reached out to the wolf, sure that he wouldn't harm her.

I awoke when canine teeth broke skin.

Even now, the recollection makes a cold shiver run down my spine. The dream is not beyond the realm of possibility.

I have decided to send Nymphadora an owl, tell her that it is better she not see me until the morning. I would prefer to kiss her before I have to prepare for the change, to cling to what I value most about humanity before it is ripped away from me, but I dare not. My love is too impetuous.

Best to send the owl.

And ward the attic door shut.

   

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This entry corresponds with ch 12 of the OotP story Moonlight and Shadow.


	4. Sunset

 

_September, 1995_

 

 

I sit here groggy and unshaven, staring out the dirty window after sleeping the day away, feeling an utter fraud. This morning I told Nymphadora she needed to consider the consequences of her actions. She’d endangered her life and betrayed my trust. I had acted the high-minded man, yet I was no paragon of virtue.

How many times in the past had I betrayed Dumbledore's trust? When I attended Hogwarts, each time my friends and I roamed the forest beneath a full moon was a betrayal. We knew the risks and took them anyway, exulting in our cleverness.

During the year I taught, every opportunity to confess Sirius was an Animagus that I let slip by was a betrayal. It was more important for me to keep Dumbledore's trust than to do what was right.

Nymphadora is headstrong, but I am a hypocrite.

It's as well the magic mirror next to this journal is face down on the desk. I cringe to think of how closely the outer reflection would mirror the inner man. Flawed and lined with guilt and self-reproach. I said it was nightmares come to life, her running through the forest as my mate. That was a half-truth equal to any she’d told. It was both nightmare and dark fantasy.

Last night was not the first time I dreamt she was a wolf.

Admittedly, some dreams were filled with images of blood and teeth and claws. In those dark visions, we hunted anything in our territory, human or animal.

Other dreams were disturbingly erotic. Her tongue licking my ears and the brush of her tail wagging in my face were aspects of canine courtship that felt natural. Instinctively, I would nibble at the fur in front of my mate's tail, knowing the sensitive area was an erogenous zone that brought her pleasure.

I regarded both types of dreams nightmarish until last night, visions capable of waking me from the depths of sleep, covered in icy sweat. Now, after an experience which filled my soul with hope and fear in equal measure, I must face Nymphadora's parting words.

_Like it or not, the werewolf isn't separate from you. The wolf is you, and you should consider accepting it!_

I could not write the words with a steady hand. I have fought this kind of thinking since I was bitten. My mother continually stressed that I was human, not animal, and must fight my nature with every ounce of strength I possessed.

Can I change my perception of my furry little problem after so many years? Is it possible to accept the wolf as a part of myself instead of a monster inflicted upon me by a curse and the full moon?

The communication mirror is giving off a soft glow. Nymphadora is trying to contact me. I cannot answer. It is too soon. I need more time.

I answer anyway.

She wanted to tell me she loved me and to bid me goodnight. I said goodnight and turned the mirror over quickly, before the sadness in her voice and the vulnerability in her expression eroded what shreds of will I still possess.

I cannot give in and go to her. Nymphadora must realise that although I love her….

My quill tore a hole in the parchment, necessitating I skip down to an unmarred place. It was a shock to realise I had not told her I love you in return.

I have to contact her immediately. Come what may, love remains.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter parallels ch 13 of Moonlight and Shadow.


	5. Pink

 

_September, 1995_

 

 

Pink is the colour of my love's hair, changed to match the hue of the lotus blooming high on the inside of her thigh. Nymphadora is sleeping on her side, and if I tilt my head, I can see the tips of the outer petals.  Although the henna pattern on her foot is clearly visible, the magical vine that grew and blossomed is not.

I don't need to see the delicate, curving line to picture it in my mind. After tracing the design with my lips, it is burned into memory.

Before I met my partner at the club this evening, I felt like a schoolboy nervously wondering how far his date would allow him to go. When I saw her wearing the sexy ribbon dress she wore on our very first date, my feelings changed. I was a man who wanted to pull his woman into a deserted alley, back her against the brick wall and physically demonstrate how much I had missed her.

The two nights prior to this one numbered among the loneliest of my life. Sirius viewed them as unnecessary deprivation, but I disagreed. If I didn’t take a stand when she went behind my back, it would have encouraged her to do it again whenever she saw fit.

Nymphadora is strong-willed. Along with passion and excitement, she has brought challenge into my life. As a boy, I allowed the strong personalities of my friends to overrule my sense and reason. As a man, I am challenged to hold fast to my convictions when my headstrong love would sweep them away. However fervent her belief in what was best for us, she acted wrongly.

That being said, two nights apart were all I could take. If Nymphadora had not owled me, I would have sent a message to her.

Earlier in the jazz club, when I first noticed that the henna vine was magically growing up the inside of her leg, I was tantalised. While we danced, I asked how high the vine had grown. When my love whispered that it would bloom with the least little encouragement, I was flattered and aroused.

Now I am saddened that Nymphadora would need enchanted henna to reassure her of my desire to be together in every way.

Her lotus is pink—a colour my young friend Aashi Patil once said represents a compassionate heart. Sometimes I forget how uncertain my bold love can be. She hides vulnerability with laughing assurance. Conceals fear with bravado.

I will reassure her with words, but first, I notice that my lover's breathing is not as slow and steady as it was a few moments ago. She has likely felt the absence of my warmth and is waking to look for me.

It will be my pleasure to use a spell to begin the enchantment over again, and re-trace the path of the vine with my lips and hands. This time, I am determined to alter the colour of the lotus to one representing love and passion.

Nymphadora will soon be morphing her hair to a fiery shade of red.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This entry was written to parallel chapter fourteen of Moonlight and Shadow.


	6. Lola

 

_October, 1995_

 

 

I wasn't planning on writing in my journal tonight. While a pleasant pastime, it is by no means obligatory. The only nightly habit I refuse to break is telling Nymphadora I love her.

Tonight, I am writing because I couldn't sleep.

Three words kept echoing in my mind, prodding me out of bed in the hope that writing them down would release their hold on my thoughts.

Au revoir, Lola...

Earlier, when Nymphadora shared the details of her conversation with Scrimgeour, some impulse made me ask if he had addressed her as Tonks or Lola. She told me he didn't call her by name until she was leaving.

At the time, I only asked out of idle curiosity. I hadn't thought much of it. The words kept haunting me, though. I kept hearing her say, “Goodbye, sir,” and him returning, “Au revoir, Lola.” The voice inflections changed each time. Not hers—she always sounded respectful in my imaginings—but his.

Sometimes he would say the words briskly, others, absently, as though his mind were on the work he'd given up part of a weekend to complete. The disturbing ones were lower pitched and bordered on flirtatious.

It was easy to imagine Scrimgeour's face as he said, “Au revoir, Lola” to my partner. Over a dozen years ago, he had entered the room where I was being interrogated about the deaths of James and Lily Potter and told the Aurors to let me go, that Sirius Black had been apprehended for the murder of the Potters, Peter Pettigrew, and Muggle bystanders.

I still remember vividly the way I proclaimed Sirius's innocence. With the regal indifference of a lion, Scrimgeour had said, "I don't care. That's for the Ministry to decide."

I have long since let go of the anger I felt that day, but I will never forget it.

Now, I wonder if the arrogant man cares that “Lola” isn't really a sophisticated woman in her thirties. If it matters to him at all that the blonde showgirl is the creation of a young and talented Metamorphmagus who already has a partner.

The critical part of my psyche says that Scrimgeour would consider me little competition. I'm a werewolf with no job, no income apart from the Ministry dole. My age, he likely finds encouraging. After all, if Nymphadora finds someone my age attractive, why wouldn't she go for someone a few years older with power and ambition?

The thought of him trying to get on with his “lady friend” brings out my territorial urges. I've been fighting the impulse to pay a visit to the Head of Aurors to warn him off. I've also refrained from asking my love not to take any further jobs as his bodyguard. Neither action would be productive.

Is this what James felt when other boys showed interest in Lily—jealous insecurity?

Strangely, the wolf within me reassures best. It goes deeper than my ego, which reminds me how we love each other, and how good we are together. The certainty is instinctive and primal. She is more than my lover. Nymphadora is my mate.

Such a bond is so profound, at times it almost frightens. At this moment, it brings peace, and the promise of sleep.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This 'entry' was written with ch 15 of Moonlight and Shadow when Tonks went to see Scrimgeour as 'Lola.'


	7. Restlessness

 

_October, 1995_

 

On days of the full moon, I feel a restlessness that is hard to describe. Long walks give temporary relief. The sense of movement and rhythm is soothing. Since the agitation is of the spirit, however, it is never truly put to rest.

When I was a boy at Hogwarts, my friends thought I was mental, roaming the grounds in all sorts of weather. They still kept me company. Rather, two of them did. Peter always had an excuse. It looked like rain, he was tired, he had an essay due, or he was feeling sick. I reckoned he was out of shape and didn't want to be teased about puffing and struggling to keep up.

James insisted on riding his broomstick. He would nick it out of the shed and coast beside me as I walked. When he grew bored, he would zoom ahead and double back. Sometimes, he would do tricks. His favourite ones were standing on the broomstick, and hanging by his knees from it, swinging back and forth like a monkey.

Sirius would walk beside me as long as we were within sight of the castle. Then he would transform and trot along on four legs instead of two. During the time he remained bipedal, he would complain about being forced to march in combat boots.

I always offered to lend Sirius trainers, but he refused. Sid Vicious of the Sex Pistols didn't wear trainers, he'd scoff. They weren't cool.

I wasn't cool either. I possessed above average intelligence, but when it came to clothes and music and what was trendy, I was an average bloke—ignorant and content to remain so.

My friends found it amusing, my being an average werewolf. Sometimes, on our walks around school and along the forest, they would give me advice to try and change that status. James always recommended I change my hairstyle to short and spiky.

Sirius would roll his eyes. Birds didn't care about hair, as long as it was clean and you had some, he'd say. They liked a bloke with style. Get a leather jacket with an attitude to match and you could get any girl you liked.

He certainly got any girl he liked, but I always knew I was searching for something different. A girl who cared more about who I was inside than what I looked like on the outside…or what I became on the full moon.

After we left Hogwarts, I thought Dorcas Meadowes might be that girl. She was quiet, thoughtful, and if we didn't share the kind of bond James and Lily had, it didn't bother me. I was content to settle for having someone in my life.

I didn't settle any longer, and the thought made me glad earlier today, when Nymphadora left for her luncheon and I took a walk to calm my restive spirit.

Besides contemplating the different walks I'd taken over the years, I contemplated the nature of restlessness, too. In the past, I could almost feel the wolf within me pacing impatiently. Today, there's a difference. I sense a similar eagerness to be set free, but now the animal has a purpose.

He wants to be with his mate…with my mate…Nymphadora.

 


	8. Instinct

 

_October, 1995_

 

Nymphadora has gone to work, Sirius is holed up with Buckbeak, and I am trying to understand what happened last night.

I remember the moment I could no longer fight the moon's pull. The change swept over me like a wave, brutally overpowering my mind as well as my body. The wolf wanted to break free of the shackles, but lacked the ability to reason his way out of bondage. After growling in frustration, he lay in resignation upon the floor.

The first thoughts I can recall after the change are sensory impressions. The animal mind was aware that the floor felt different, as though cushioned by a mound of leaves or grass. The wolf did not grasp the reason for it. It just was. He viewed the dog that kept him company in a similar manner. The dog was there. His presence received little attention, since the dog brought no food and could not accompany the wolf on a run.

Nymphadora's arrival was also of slight interest until the wolf drew in her scent. It was familiar. When the animal beheld her and heard her voice, their blood magic bond flared to life. He no longer saw her as human. In his mind, she was a wolf—his mate.

The air around them smelled like a storm was overhead. The wolf kept his gaze on the female approaching. She was properly submissive, acknowledging his position as Alpha of their pack. When her eyes locked onto his, he felt savage joy to be transported into the forest, away from captivity.

She played with leaves like a pup.

He stood hidden in the underbrush, watching her. His mate was strong and healthy. He enjoyed bumping and shouldering her body, along with grooming her coat.

The wolf surrendered to the impulse to be playful. He smiled to hear her yelp when his body thrust hers onto the pile of leaves. Pleased with his ambush, he rolled simply to hear crunching.

His mate nipped behind his knee. He was startled how good it felt. He allowed her a moment of feminine triumph before setting out for the new den. He was eager to show his mate the cave he had found. It would be warm and dry in the winter and large enough to hold a growing pack.

Courting instinct became confused with another instinct when she entered the cave. His leap to ambush turned into something else. Something she wasn't ready for. Something that left him feeling strange things until his mate distracted him.

Something the wolf forgot while the man remembered, because those “strange things” were not a product of animal instinct.

I knew wolves mated in late winter or early spring, and certain physiological signs signalled a female's readiness. There had been no such signs. The only sensory receptor triggering a sexual response was a human influence over the animal mind. My desire for Nymphadora had stimulated the wolf's need to mate.

Writing down what happened has brought understanding, but not comfort. Instead, there are only more questions. I don't begrudge the wolf the pleasure of courting, but how do I prevent him from doing anything else? How do I keep the seasons from changing?

How do I sleep?

 


	9. Aftereffects

 

_October, 1995_

 

Other people wake up the morning after a full moon and go to work or perhaps have a leisurely breakfast, reading the paper. I wake up and go back to bed. It doesn't matter how much sleep the wolf may have had. The human body requires its metabolic system be in an anabolic phase—sleeping—in order to heal. When I was on Wolfsbane Potion, I didn't fight becoming a werewolf. The change was less stressful, so the recovery process took less time.

Until today.

Earlier, I wrote down my thoughts in this journal and stumbled into bed, fully expecting to sleep the day away. Instead, I awoke after only six hours.

I know because I checked the time. I didn't believe the evidence of my eyes or the strength of the light filtering through grimy windows. I had to grope for the clock beside the bed and stare at the hands pointing to the twelve and two for the truth to sink in.

I felt more rested than I usually did although I’d had fewer hours of sleep. There was no potion to account for it, only the bond I shared with Nymphadora. Somehow, it moderated the effects of transformation. Was the cause psychological—had knowing she would be with me allowed me to accept the change more easily? Or was it a result of blood magic?

Had some of her health and vitality been transferred to me? If so, did she feel tired today? Would our bond drain her like some magical parasite?

I didn't know. Blood magic wasn't a part of the Defence Against the Dark Arts curriculum, and not a subject I was ever interested in studying. That kind of spell-work was considered grey magic at best and Dark by most wizards.

As a werewolf, in order to be accepted, I was expected to be above reproach like Caesar's wife, although such a thing is impossible. No man is perfect. Furthermore, Caesar was misquoted. He didn't say his wife should be above reproach. He said his wife should be as free from suspicion of a crime as she is from a crime itself.

I have worked my entire life to be as free from suspicion of being Dark as I am innocent of the crime of Dark magic. Purchasing or borrowing a text on blood magic might give my friend Andrew or a clerk at another bookshop the wrong idea.

I care too much about the opinion of others. I always have. When your good name is one of your few possessions, you guard it jealously. It may be a fault, but I would not readily damage it in anyone's eyes.

Thankfully, I have a friend with a family library filled with books. When I dressed and went upstairs, I found Sirius and Buckbeak rolling an empty beer bottle across the room to each other. Others bottles stood like bowling pins against a side wall.

I bowed to the Hippogriff and asked Sirius to help me find a book. He weaved his way out the door, blaming sleep deprivation for his lack of balance. It reminded me of schooldays, when he'd stagger to bed on the odd Sunday morning and not awaken until just before class on Monday.

In the library, my friend braced his hand against a shelf as he bent to read titles. Before I could speak, he picked out a book and told me to spare him the lecture on the evils of drink. He knew he drank too much. He was well aware that Cami and everyone else worried over it. He would do better. In fact, he planned to take a nap and not touch a drop when Cami visited later.

There was nothing for me to say except thank you. I took the book down to the kitchen, but I couldn't read _Power in the Blood_ while eating a roast beef sandwich.

Afterwards, another entry to my journal seemed a good way to gather focus before I began researching blood magic. Whether scratching down my thoughts did more than postpone an unwelcome task doesn't matter. The exercise served its purpose.

I'm done writing. It's time to read.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> According to the Roman historian Suetonius, instead of the well-known saying, what Caesar actually said was Meos tam suspicione quam crimine iudico carere oportere, or “My wife should be as much free from suspicion of a crime as she is from a crime itself.” I thought it fit a werewolf trying to remain part of society.


	10. Blood

 

_October, 1995_

 

Not every answer to life's questions can be found in a book. I once told that to Hermione Granger and hid a smile at her look of dismay.

I smile at myself now, over an experienced wizard's naïveté in thinking I would find a definitive answer to the question of blood magic in a text from Sirius's library. I doubt anyone would mistake my expression for one of amusement, however. I can feel the corners of my lips twisting downward.

_Power in the Blood_ claimed to be a scholarly text. Perhaps in a way it was. The pages inside the leather-bound book were treatises on blood magic. I found the subtitle ominous: The Path of Corruption.

The author, Augustus Milverton, used a circular kind of reasoning. According to Milverton, blood represents life, and a wizard's life is characterised by his innate ability to perform magic. Therefore, a wizard's lifeblood has an intrinsic power to enhance spells.

There were two methods of obtaining blood. The caster either willingly sacrificed his or her own or used the blood of others. The sacrifice of unwilling blood was considered more potent.

Candles were often used in the rituals. Anointed with blood, the wax supposedly released magical energy as the candle burned. Nymphadora had used a candle when she’d bound her spirit to the werewolf.

I only skimmed, not read, the various ways blood magic could be used. Aside from a brief mention of binding the target for the person's benefit, the spells listed were Dark. They were aimed at corrupting the victim's body through crippling disease or manipulating his or her mind.

One ritual claimed to have an effect similar to an Imperius Curse. The spell would make the victim do or say what the caster wished—momentarily. Only an Imperius was long-lasting.

The most chilling words I read concerned the “theft of vitae.” According to the text, it wasn't the theft of vitality or even the literal life from someone that should cause concern. Milverton cautioned those who used blood magic to take care. On rare occasion, wizards and witches experienced a drain of their own vitality instead of stealing it from victims.

Until I read that passage, I was able to view what I was reading with emotional detachment. Afterwards, I shut the book and immediately returned it to the library.

Ironically, I didn't want to read anymore. I needed to write. Put my findings on paper and let the words strengthen my resolve to do what is best. Not for me. My wellbeing is immaterial. I must do what is best for Nymphadora. Some benefits are not worth the risk. There are chances I won't take.

Whether she agrees with my decision or not.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If there are any Sherlock Holmes fans, yes, Augustus Milverton was based on Charles Augustus Milverton, aka “the worst man in London.”


	11. Immovable?

 

_October, 1995..._

 

This is the third entry I've made today. I believe that's a record.

I have written down events and thoughts more than once on certain days. There is no set pattern to my journaling. Many days have no entry, simply because they were unremarkable. A few, dark times in my life are so ingrained in memory that I don't need to read words to recall them vividly. In fact, words could not express the tragedy of them, or the depth of my grief.

Today is unique in another way. I've never scratched out my thoughts in an attic before. I wouldn't be writing these words now, sitting on the floor with my back against a trunk, if it wasn't for Nymphadora.

I brought my lover up to the attic to break it to her gently that I cannot allow her to be with me on full moons anymore. Every time she engages the blood magic that binds us together, there is a real chance that I will drain her vitality...perhaps even take her life.

Call me a man with a furry little problem, or call me a monster, but I am not a parasite. I will not risk harming the woman I love, who lies sleeping within the containment circle even as I write.

Nymphadora sleeps because the heat of our argument sparked another type of fire, a passionate expression of love that endures regardless of differences. If I had not spent the day recovering from the change, I too would be asleep.

Observing the way the lengthening shadows play across her skin, she makes me wish I could sketch and somehow capture the beauty of her form. The graceful lines and sleek curves of her back, her arms, her breasts. The little smile that curves her lips, the heart shaped face and pixie spiked hair are all things which words alone cannot do justice.

If words fail to describe her tangible qualities, how can they hope to portray the intangible?

The quality that worries me most is her stubbornness. She jokes about it, says she has a hard head so when we disagree, butt heads, it won't hurt our relationship. My love is a strong-willed woman. Her stubborn determination is part of her forceful nature, part of the reason I find her irresistible.

Nevertheless, what happens if she refuses to accept that I will not allow her to endanger herself? If she is an irresistible force, am I an immovable object? If I am equally resolved to have my way in the matter, what happens when an irresistible force meets an immovable object?

Muggle science would state that the situation is not possible. It is illogical. A force that cannot be resisted and an object that cannot be moved are unable to exist in the same universe.

Yet they do.

Will our opposing views about blood magic cancel each other out? If neither of us moves on our stance, can we find some way to mutually surrender?

I don't know.

The situation reminds me of a song I heard long ago, when one of Sirius's Muggle girlfriends coerced a group of us into watching her favourite film on telly. While others chatted or slipped out of the room for a snog, I found myself tapping my foot to the songs in the musical. One in particular struck me. It described the sort of girl I found inexplicably attractive, a young woman like the one who will soon be sleeping in my arms.

Ironic that the catchy tune fits my situation.

 

_Oh, how do you solve a problem like Nymphadora?  
How do you hold a moonbeam in your hand?_

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, the film Remus watched was the Sound of Music, the quote from the song Maria about a very plucky, Tonks-ish girl. 
> 
> In the getting ready to go on vacation chaos, I forgot to post this with ch 20 of Moonlight and Shadow. I’m back from vacation/insane road trip, so I’m posting this to play catch up. :D


	12. Irresistible

 

_November, 1995_

 

I no longer have to worry about what would happen if an irresistible force met an immovable object. Nymphadora has proven that while she is irresistible, I am not immovable.

Last night, I went into the attic fully expecting to spend the time alone. Padfoot was there, but the wolf didn’t appreciate his company the way a friend did. He lay on the floor with his head resting on his paws, marking time the way he had on other moonlit nights.

I could tell that the wolf wasn't expecting his mate to join him. He didn't shift restlessly in his bonds. My human mind must have conveyed that she was staying away that night.

That must have been why I felt the animal's surprised joy when the attic transformed into a grassy clearing. The wolf made a sigh of contentment because he knew that his mate was somehow responsible for his freedom.

When she playfully ambushed him, he became aggressive, but not out of anger. It was simply the way of the pack to establish dominance. Once his mate acknowledged he was alpha, he was free to show affection.

I have mixed feelings about the forms that affection takes. I've read a book or two about wolves. I know that grooming, licking, rubbing, and bumping are courting rituals. I'm not petty enough to begrudge an animal the sense of well-being that comes from being groomed thoroughly, or the simple pleasure of feeling a warm body pressed to his.

It's the licking that I wish they wouldn't do so much of. Silly, really, to fear that my human desires and instincts affect the wolf when I'm not even certain he is aware that he exists only when the moon is full.

Wolves lick the alpha in greeting. Licking is involved in grooming. When a wolf licks the air, it is a calming signal to show non-aggression. It is a natural act. If only logic could overrule emotion.

When I assured Nymphadora that I wasn't upset about her accidental triggering of the blood magic, I couldn't tell her the thoughts that did disturb me. At best, I would have sounded jealous. At worst—I do not even want to think about it. I should have been grateful to feel more energised while she appeared a picture of health. Instead, I fought the impulse to say, “No, I'm not angry, but I would like to know if all that licking you were doing was strictly grooming instinct, or if your human influence turned it into canine French kissing?”

It would sound ridiculous to ask if she felt nerve endings tingle when my tongue stroked her gums or teeth or tongue instead of her muzzle. If her wolfish counterpart groomed my face so intensively in order to do the same, and if all those swipes of her tongue on my sensitive areas made images of spring run through her mind too.

Anyway, what if it did? What if it didn't? How would I react either way? I don’t know.

There is a part of me—the part that avoided conflict at school and went along with bad pranks and reckless schemes even when I knew I shouldn't—that hopes a Morpheus Charm will nullify the blood magic and allow me to postpone what is sure to be an awkward conversation.

Another side of me—the Marauder who loved the rush of adrenaline of a risky prank or a jaunt into the Forbidden Forest—hopes that our bond will prove stronger than any other magic.

I don’t know what will happen next month, but I’ve decided not to worry about tomorrow, for worry will not add a single brown hair to my head, while it will certainly add grey.

I will simply love Nymphadora with all that I am and hope for the best.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the one shot Time after Time, Tonks tells Remus, "I'm going to love you for everything you are, with all that I am." I thought it only fitting he love her the same way! This entry corresponds to ch 21 of Moonlight and Shadow, and I hope gives readers the insight into Remus they were looking for.


	13. Dreams

 

_December 1995,_

 

I never expected to dream last night.

I didn't tell Nymphadora, but I did some research of my own on lucid dreaming after she showed me the text she’d bought. The neurophysiologic approach to dreams, documented in writings as early as the fifth century, claimed that it was possible to experience conscious dreaming—to recognise that one was dreaming, and yet continue to dream. Although it was achievable, however, it was uncommon. Lucid dreaming required a balance of reason and emotion that was difficult to sustain, even after training.

If conscious dreams were rare, the instances recorded of persons channelling the ability to enable dreaming while under a Morpheus Charm were rarer still. Without entering a dream state, there was no chance of becoming aware of dreaming, thus no possibility of experiencing a lucid dream.

One wizard authority on sleep and Sleep Charms said the odds against dreaming under a Morpheus Charm were a million to one.

My advanced research, as I considered it, lulled me into viewing my partner's new hobby as an amusing pastime. I fully believed I would spend a dreamless night and find a way to comfort my love in the morning.

I should have known Nymphadora was one in a million.

Even if I had thought it possible, though, I would not have objected. I'm not against sharing dreams, despite my mixed feelings about canine affection. In fact, I only suggested using a sleeping potion to ascertain whether blood magic triggered without conscious stimulation.

I didn't have dry heaves when I woke because she beat the odds. The pressure in my chest and abdomen wasn’t caused by knowing we had been together in a dream. It was due to how we had been together.

Before, my wolf had been in control. Nymphadora's wolf shared his dream, following as he led her through the Forbidden Forest, the world he remembered.

This time, she controlled the dream.

The wolf had no interest in human females in red garments. He had picked up a familiar scent and entered the clearing in search of the source. When the human walked out of the circle and disappeared, he did not care. All he knew was that his mate was standing before him.

He led the way through the forest, resigned to a long night hunting for food, until his mate barked. She wanted to retrace their path. He didn't try hard to resist her appeal.

After they returned to the clearing, something about the unnatural circle made him leery of entering it. The grass should have been covered in snow. The breeze should have smelled of ice and the brown leaves buried under it, not grass and flowers. Caution made him to growl an order for them to leave.

His mate disobeyed, leaping into the ring. When she disappeared, the wolf was confused and distressed. He could smell her, but couldn’t see her. In her place was the human female he had seen before.

He took the food and came back only because he detected his mate's scent on the bone. When the human acted submissively, he approached, ignoring the noises she made to focus on one thing: scent.

The human smelled like his mate. Not exactly—there was no fur—but enough to cause confusion. When she made a whimpering sound, some instinct compelled the animal to enter the circle. Once he stepped onto the grass, his perception changed.

The human female was his mate. The wolf didn’t know why this ring made her shift from her true form to one so alien, but he would not leave her. He would simply wait for her to become a wolf again. While he waited, he allowed her to groom him and picked a flower out of her strange pelt in return. He licked her face and patiently watched over her as she slept.

It was the knowledge that the wolf now considered my partner his mate that caused my body to retch this morning. I still feel my gut twisting. I had drawn a sharp dividing line in my mind between animal and human. I can't help but feel as though last night revealed it to have been drawn in sand, which Nymphadora's will swept away.

I don't know what to do or how to react, so I'll do what I've always done when thoughts weighed heavily on my mind. I'll take a walk.

 

 

 


	14. Sleeplessness

 

_December, 1995..._

 

I can’t sleep.

I took a shower and stretched out on the bed, expecting to fall asleep within minutes. Instead, my mind raced with thoughts and images.

The expression on Nymphadora's face when she left haunted me. She was hurt by my distant manner, although trying not to show it. I saw through her determined smile; her husky voice had been a dead giveaway.

I just didn't know what to do about it.

Subconscious as it may have been, she had constructed a dream in which she transformed into a woman, and my wolf became aware that she was his mate in human form.

The knowledge that the wolf licked her face made me almost physically ill. I wanted the beast nowhere near her. When it came to Nymphadora, I wanted the two parts of my life to remain divided, as far apart as the east from the west, the way my mother taught me to consider them.

I had tried to roll onto my side and squeeze my eyes tightly shut, as though I could will myself to slumber. It hadn’t worked. Memories from the past resurfaced.

My mother's eyes blazed with suppressed anger as she watched me throw down Floo Powder to leave my grandparents' home. When she exited our fireplace a few moments later, her cheeks were red. I knew it was because Grandfather had asked if it was safe for me to visit now that I was a werewolf. He said Grandmother was afraid.

Mum knelt and put her hands on my shoulders. She told me not to be upset, that old people were set in their ways, but we would change their view about my condition. In time, they would see that I was the same boy I had always been.

Equally vivid was the memory of the day my friends confronted me with the truth of my “illness.” Sirius thought being a werewolf must be so cool. He wanted to be able to transform too. He didn't want to be a wolf, in case he ran across a superstitious Muggle with a firearm, but he did want to be something that would give his hag of a mother a fright.

James was the one who researched the transformation spell. Peter couldn't decide whether or not he wanted to become an Animagus until Sirius asked if he was a man or a mouse. Peter said he was a man, but later I found it painfully ironic that his Animagus form was a rat.

Sirius, James, and Peter never considered the werewolf as a separate being, although “furry and more fun” was Padfoot's declaration on more than one occasion. The wolf was always eager for the most perilous jaunt into the forest, while I would question the advisability of risk taking.

I tossed and turned on the mattress, unable to find a comfortable position, because my true discomfort came from within. I had happily shared my friends with the wolf, but I couldn’t bear to share my partner.

I gave up trying to sleep and decided to write down my thoughts and feelings, hoping to gain perspective. I think I have.

My mother stressed that I was not the wolf. People didn't say, “Oh, there's that cancer, don't get too close,” did they? She thought it was equally wrong to say, 'He's a werewolf, stay away from him."

My friends had a different attitude. They felt I should embrace the wolf, and since I got furry once a month, I should have fun with it. They wanted in on the fun, and I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t enjoyed planning our adventures. It would be false as well to say my human mind had been entirely detached from what the werewolf experienced.

Nymphadora said the wolf knew she was his mate in another form because my human mind enabled the animal to understand. I fought not to believe that was true, but now must admit it was.

I can accept the wolf's awareness of the dual nature of his mate, but I don't want a repeat of last night's dream. Since Nymphadora's spell has increased my energy without draining hers, I will concede that it was not Dark magic and offer a compromise.

We will be together on full moons. The wolf will have the companionship of his mate: the wolf, not the woman.

Now I must find Nymphadora. Only when she lies beside me will I sleep.

 

 


	15. Weddings

 

_December, 1995_

 

I haven't been to many weddings in my life. When you’re a werewolf who keeps people at a distance, it tends to limit the number of invitations you receive to social events.

Nymphadora changed that aspect of my life. Our relationship doesn't take place in a vacuum or a magic bubble in which only she and I exist—although it’s enjoyable to pretend otherwise when we are alone together. Unlike me, she has a large family and many friends who have somehow become my family and friends too.

Last June, I attended two weddings in a single day. The first ceremony was held in a church in north London. Although I didn't much care for the pomp and ceremony, the vows were touching.

_I promise to be true to you in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health. I will love you and honour you all the days of my life._

The second wedding was held within a circle of standing stones on the Isle of Lewis. Although the joining ceremony was wizard instead of Muggle, the exchange of vows was remarkably similar. The couple came seeking partnership, with all love, honour and sincerity, wishing only to become one, always striving for each other's happiness and welfare.

Thoughts of today's wedding have brought back memories of the past. I cannot help but wonder what vows Lily and James spoke to each other. At the time, I was too stunned to hear that they had chosen to marry on a full moon with only Sirius and the celebrant for witnesses to think about such things.

I remember being pleasantly surprised to receive a dinner invitation. Lily was an excellent cook, and it had been weeks since all of us had spent time together. Over coffee, the new couple announced their marriage. Sirius had burst out laughing when Peter's jaw dropped. He made some joke about a worm catching flies while I smiled dazedly and gave the couple my sincere congratulation.

While I duly admired the photographs Lily showed me, the one that struck me most was the picture that showed the couple smiling ecstatically at each other while Sirius laughed joyously to be a part of their special day.

At that moment, I realised that although the Marauders once claimed to be a band of brothers, kin in spirit if not blood, we had drifted apart, and now only James and Sirius were truly that close. Lily must have sensed my melancholy, for she placed a hand on my arm and said, “You understand why we married in secret, don't you, Remus?”

I assured her that I did. All these years later, however, I can see clearly that being excluded hurt, and I put up walls in order to protect myself from feeling more pain.

Reserve led to mistrust, which became an estrangement I thought permanent until the day I saw the name of a dead man on the Marauders Map and knew that Sirius was still the man I had loved like a brother.

A brother who will be the one excluded when Orion Mortimer Black and Lisa Liu speak their vows in a ceremony that states publicly what they have already done privately—become one in spirit and flesh. He will have to wait outside as Snuffles to catch a glimpse of the couple, because anything else is too dangerous.

As for me, in the same manner I did at the other two ceremonies, I will gaze at Nymphadora and say the vows in my heart, although I do not know when I will ever be able to say them in a way that joins us legally as well as emotionally.

The times are too perilous. Anti-werewolf legislation ensures that the wife of a werewolf experiences many of the same restrictions as her husband. I refuse to jeopardise Nymphadora's career for a piece of paper that will not change my feelings one iota.

She is my mate, and always will be. I can be happy with that.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HBP story foreshadowing here? Maybe it is...and maybe it is. This entry corresponds with chapter 24 of Moonlight and Shadow.


	16. Werewolves

 

 

_December, 1995_

 

I write to record events. I write to gain perspective on my feelings. Tonight, I find myself doing both while writing to pass the time.

Sirius is holed up with Buckbeak, drinking and brooding. Over the last few days, Cami has been working longer hours to run the agency while Morty and Lisa are on their honeymoon. He misses her so terribly that I cannot reproach him. While a chess match or a run in the park with a friend are welcome distractions, they are no cure for the loneliness a man feels without his lover.

My partner is probably calling out farewells to her workmates and striding toward the double doors of Auror headquarters as I write. In her cloak pocket, she’ll have tucked an office memo that amused or offended, or the latest office cartoon. When she arrives at Grimmauld, she will bound up the stairs and show it to me to get my reaction, after giving me a proper hello.

I look forward to that hello all day. It is impossible to describe fully how it makes me feel to see Nymphadora's face light up when she sees me. The sparkle in her eyes and the radiance of her smile lift my spirit. They act as a balm on days when doubts and fears creep in like malignant shadows, casting a pall on my hopes for the future. I can't help but wonder if my expression when I see her is what prompts Nymphadora to change her kiss of greeting as often as she changes the colour of her hair.

Sometimes our kiss is brief and sweet. Other times, her lips cling tenderly. Tonight, I hope her kiss is long and deep, distracting me from worrying thoughts.

I’m anxious about the meeting tonight. My friend David sent a note this morning, giving the time and place. He added that the werewolf who passed the information to him seemed tense and excited. I feel the tension also, with a glaring difference. Mine is a product of dread, not excitement.

Average as I am in appearance—despite Nymphadora's loving claim otherwise—I blend into the background at meetings. By not drawing attention to myself, I become privy to the whispered conversations of those who disregard my presence. What I have heard is alarming. The werewolves who assemble in small numbers to air their grievances against the Ministry are mostly comprised of men and women attacked in adulthood. While they are sought-after allies, Voldemort's supporters do not recruit them as diligently as another group: those who have been werewolves since childhood.

Denied education and expected to subsist on the fringes of the Wizarding world, rumours abound that the scattered packs are hungry for a better life. Fenrir Greyback offers power. The Ministry promises only a meagre dole.

In dark moments I wonder what my life would have been like if Dumbledore had denied my parents' request. How would I have viewed the system that ensures wizards have everything while other magical creatures remain subordinate?

After tonight's meeting, I fear I will no longer be able to hold off reporting my findings. If I hear that rumour has become fact, I will leave for Scotland immediately, because if anyone can find a way to counter Greyback's influence, it is Albus Dumbledore.

I only wish I could pretend that his plan will not include me.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope by the end of Moonlight and Shadow and this journal, readers will be ready for Remus's third person pov to join Tonks's in the next story, and will be eager to go “underground” with him. ;)


	17. Fears

 

_December, 1995_

 

Nymphadora has gone to visit Mad-Eye, leaving me to silence and thoughts that have me wishing for distraction.

Growing up, I used to lie in bed and guess the source of the various noises in our flat and those of our neighbours. Mum was getting up for a glass of water, Mr. Firth was letting his dog out, or pipes were rattling because someone was taking a bath. At Hogwarts, on nights when the approaching full moon weighed heavily, it amused me to hear a quiet snore and think Sirius had been drinking on the sly again or a deep sigh that made me smile because I knew James was dreaming of Lily. Here, a privacy ward ensures that the sounds made in this room travel no further, and that the creaks and muffled voices echoing in the rest of the house likewise do not pass the magical barrier surrounding my bedroom.

Downstairs, Molly will be bustling around in the kitchen. On various other floors, the children will be readying to visit Arthur after lunch. It would be nice to hear a muffled yell and speculate that one of the twins had pulled a prank, or catch a strain of music wafting from a vent and know Molly had turned on the wireless. Even the squeaks of old stairs would be pleasant, homey.

I am isolated from the others by sound as well as sight, but perhaps that is for the best. If I settle here too comfortably, leaving will be that much more painful—and I will have to leave.

Dumbledore has asked me to verify that werewolves living outside society are banding together under Greyback's leadership. Left unspoken was that afterwards, my mission will be to act the spy and as a subversive, if I can, undermining the support for You-Know-Who.

After I learned of Arthur's attack, I went to St. Mungo's for two reasons. The first was genuine concern. There was a possibility, however slight, that the snake targeted Arthur because of his connection to Harry. The second was out of self-interest. I wanted to delay my return to Grimmauld Place until my thoughts and feelings were under firm control. It would be too easy to dump everything onto Nymphadora.

In light of my current financial situation, I had requested we not give material presents this year; that we give to each other from the heart, not a store. It would be a poor present to give her worry over her lover's future—our future.

I paid a high price in order not burden Nymphadora. Sitting watch outside the Dai Llewellyn ward, my mind kept imagining a pink-haired Auror volunteering to take her friend's place and attacked by a giant serpent in his stead. Gut-wrenching images replayed constantly. I saw her mouth open in a scream, watched her collapse, head lolling to the side, while her blood pooled onto the floor in an ever-widening circle.

Relief that she wasn't the one injured made me feel guilty for wanting to be with her, in the most intimate way, when I returned to find her sleeping on my bed. In her arms, swept away by passion, nothing else mattered except our love. It wasn't until I was alone that fears rose again, like the haunting croon of a Christmas Carol.

_The hopes and fears of all the years are met in thee tonight._


	18. Christmas

 

_December, 1995_

 

Christmas Dinner is over. In a few minutes, everyone will gather downstairs in preparation to pay Arthur another visit. I’m taking the opportunity to express how profoundly happy I am to spend Christmas with Harry and Sirius and the others, and yet I how much I wish that I could share each moment with Nymphadora.

She would have comforted much better than I did, earlier, when I went down to help make breakfast and found Molly in tears because Percy had sent back his jumper without a word of acknowledgment or concern about his father. The twins had tried to cheer their mother, but instead caused louder sobs when they called their brother a humongous pile of rat droppings.

I gave the imps a stern look that had them retreating upstairs. Silently, I made tea, trying to provide sympathetic company instead of mouthing platitudes that would mean nothing to a woman who wanted to re-connect with her estranged son more than anything. Once she drank the tea and regained her composure, Molly gasped to realise that she had left a basket of clementines at the Burrow. She felt Christmas breakfast would not be the same if the children did not see their favourite oranges on the table. I volunteered to Apparate to Devon.

Inside the Weasley home, the sight of the oranges on the kitchen table brought back memories of my family's Christmas tradition. My mother was fond of mimosas, and while my own drink contained orange juice with a splash of champagne, she and my father drank mimosas with three parts champagne to one part juice.

On impulse, I checked the coolant cabinet. There was orange juice. In the cellar of Grimmauld, I was sure to find sparkling white wine if no champagne was to be had. I picked up the glass bottle along with the basket.

The children had devoured their meal by the time I returned, but Molly, Sirius, and I enjoyed toasting Christmas with mimosas. Afterwards, as I sat in the drawing room reading a book and listening to Harry and Sirius chat during a match of wizard chess, I was reminded of the Christmas when Harry was five months old.

The boy had stretched out on a blanket on his stomach, lifting his head and chest to see his toys. Whenever James and Sirius laughed during their chess match, he would turn his head sharply in their direction.

Lily had been in the kitchen, putting the finishing touches on Christmas Dinner, so the moment I saw the infant begin to kick his legs and fuss; I leaned over from my seat on the sofa and gingerly picked him up. Imitating what I had seen James do, I supported the boy beneath his arms while he placed tiny feet on my thighs. Harry bounced up and down, making raspberry sounds.

I thought James a lucky man to have such a son.

Today, watching Sirius draw Harry out and bring a smile to his face, I thought my friend blessed to have such a godson. For a moment, I contemplated what it might be like if Cami and Sirius had a child, and I was the boy or girl's godfather. I would do my best to be a good one, supportive and caring.

As thoughts do, mine wandered further still, daring to picture a baby with brown hair like mine and a wide, captivating smile like Nymphadora’s. I imagined holding the boy snugly in the crook of my arm, chuckling to see my son watch his mother intently while she sang an off-key rendition of  _Incy-Wincy Spider._ For different reasons, my eyes would be fixed on her mouth too.

Although I am tempted to write more, Sirius has just knocked, reminding me that Arthur Weasley is alone in a hospital ward, waiting for his family—waiting for Christmas.

I have waited many times before, waited for something good to happen in my life, for love to come my way. I consider myself the most fortunate of men that I am waiting no longer.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the ghosts of Christmas in his journal entry, eh? I think most people are 'visited' by all three during the holidays.   
> This entry corresponds with chapter 27 of Moonlight and Shadow.


	19. Valentine

 

 

_February, 1996_

 

Tomorrow is Valentine's Day. I wish that I could afford to give Nymphadora roses and diamonds, but my precarious finances barely stretch to affording dinner at a family-run Italian restaurant. La Cucinais so small, the owners only accept reservations on holidays, but the food is good and the ambiance pleasant. The hostess knows our names because we dine there regularly.

We dined at La Cucina last Valentine's Day, as a matter of fact. I don't need to flip back to the entry to remember how I felt that night. The memory remains vivid, pressed into mind like a rose between the pages of a book.

Nymphadora wore red, a short dress that made me want to run my hands over the velvety material and then stroke the skin beneath it. Being a gentleman, I didn't ogle her. I did admire her legs as we followed the hostess, however.

We sat at a small corner table, holding hands and making small talk while we waited for our food to arrive. I felt like a schoolboy, enchanted by her laughter and smiles and the brush of her knee against mine beneath the tabletop.

Unlike the boy I had been seventh year, however, I did not fear that my girlfriend would discover that I was a werewolf and reject me. Neither did I feel stomach-churning apprehension over the possibility that she would want me to kiss her in public. The mere thought that Dorcas might lean toward me and part her lips expectantly had ensured that I leaned back in my chair at all times to ward off such an occurrence. My hands, when not holding cutlery or a glass, were kept in my lap to make sure she would not reach for them and discover how clammy they were.

When Nymphadora leaned toward me, I didn't glance around self-consciously the way I once would have. Instead, I experienced a rush of anticipation as I raised a hand to cup her cheek, kissing her with a soft thoroughness. The server delivering our dinners sighed. I smiled, but inside I grinned over the tiny noise of protest my love made when I drew back.

Strangely, thoughts of Valentine's Day cause me to wonder how the Head of Aurors will spend his evening tomorrow night. Will he leave the office early to perpetuate the illusion that he has a partner? As he eats his solitary dinner, will Scrimgeour wish 'Lola' was there beside him?

Somehow, I know he will, and while I can empathise with a lonely man, my sympathy extends no further. Lola is only an illusion, projected by a talented Metamorphmagus. Rufus Scrimgeour desires a fantasy. I love Nymphadora for who she really is.

Her true appearance and personality are more vibrant and alluring than any false persona, and more vulnerable. The shadows that darkened her eyes revealed that my love continued to be upset by Scrimgeour's Legilimency.

If I thought she would give up her side job, I would have asked her to. I knew she wouldn't. Nymphadora's determination to save money for Wolfsbane Potion and our future fuelled her resolve, so instead of arguing, I encouraged her to ask Severus for Occlumency lessons.

A glance at my watch shows that Nymphadora should be on her way home. If she walks through the door with a smile that reaches her eyes, I will be doubly indebted to Severus Snape.

If she smiles, whether he likes it or not, at the first opportunity I will thank him.

 


	20. Loss

 

 

_June, 1996_

 

I had to tell a friend that her lover is gone.

"Where is he? I need to see him." Cami's words brought tears to my eyes as I told her how Sirius had fallen behind the veil in the Department of Mysteries.

Her anger struck a chord as she railed against the Ministry for having a Death Chamber, for constructing a veil between this life and what lies beyond. Death was a natural part of life, so why did they need to study it? My answer would not comfort so I left it unspoken—that those who ran the Ministry valued potential knowledge over human life.

I almost broke down when her mood shifted into hopefulness. Sirius wasn't dead when he fell behind the veil. It wasn't his time to die. He could come back. After all, he escaped from Azkaban, which no one else had ever done, because Harry needed him. Look at how many people needed him now!

I hated to tell her that Sirius was not the first person to step beyond that veil, that there had been volunteers who deliberately walked through—never to return. I also wanted to believe it was possible.

Sirius was my last boyhood friend, the one who remembered James and Lily and shared my memories of Hogwarts. When he was in Azkaban, like the Sirius shining in the night sky, he wasn't close, but there was comfort in knowing that he was alive, even if I reluctantly believed he had betrayed us all by Imperius or other coercions. During the months that he was in hiding, the Dog Star was a reminder that if Sirius wasn't near, he was at least free.

There was no comfort to be found now that he was forever out of reach.

Cami chose to cling to hope, even as she cried. Sirius didn't volunteer, he didn't go willingly. He would find a way back to her, to Harry. He had so much to live for.

She looked around the room wildly, begging me not to let Kreacher destroy Sirius's things. The books he kept piled on the desk because they were his favourites, the tin soldiers and other childhood toys he had found in the attic. I had to keep them safe.

Gently, I suggested she gather the items Sirius most loved while I fetched a small trunk from the attic. Cami eagerly latched onto the idea of storing the most cherished mementos at her flat and began putting items on the bed.

It reminded me of the time I watched my mother gather my father's things together, saving some and donating others. Every once in a while, she would stop and clutch something to her chest, shoulders shaking as she contained her grief to silent tears.

As before, I left the room to keep from being overcome by sorrow.

In the attic, a green trunk caught my eye. Sirius had loved those Christmas ornaments. There was another trunk full of them. These wouldn't be missed. I opened the lid. Sirius's few possessions would fit inside, although I might have to shrink a few books.

When I returned with the trunk, I found Cami sitting on the bed, staring down at a couple of photographs. She had bought an Insta-print camera so she and Sirius could have pictures of each other. She showed me one that was taken at arm’s length by the man who smiled at his partner before grinning at the camera.

I didn't look closely at Sirius. I couldn't. I looked at the woman who laughed up at him and knew why she clung to hope—because when hope was gone, her heart would break.

It didn't take long to pack the trunk and deliver it to Cami's flat. She hugged me and said that she would visit Tonks tomorrow. Unsaid was that she needed time to cry, time to begin to come to terms with what had happened. She had finished her assignment, visited her lover, only to find that he was gone. There was no chance to say "I love you" one last time.

The blotches that mar this entry are the tears of a man who will have to find a way to tell another woman that Sirius is gone. There is no hope in me that he will return, only the pain of loss.


	21. Daydreams

 

 

 

_June 1996,_

 

The Isle of Lewis is an island of contrasts. Grey hills and rocks tower over white sands. Bright flowers dot long, green grasses, creating the effect of a living Monet painting. Along the coast, peaceful stretches of sea contrast with the lively noise found within small, crowded pubs.

While lying beside my lover upon a blanket on shore or floating in the tranquil blue-green sea, the warmth of the sun and water lull me into a temporary forgetfulness. Cares seem to drift away.

In such moments, I slip into a daydream that has become so familiar that I can recount it with the ease of an oft-told story.

We are residents here, not merely holidaygoers. I imagine the war is over and Nymphadora's Auror experience has earned her a position with the local Magical Law Enforcement Office. The MacLeans, who encouraged us to make the island our home, also devised a scheme to gain my acceptance within the wizarding community.

When we first arrived, I kept to myself, and was often seen fishing during the day. At night, we left fish upon the windowsills of poor families. After Mr. MacLean made a few leading comments at the pub, the villagers believed me to be a  _wulver,_ a non-aggressive werewolf, and trusted me to tutor their children.

Sometimes, in my most daring fantasies, I raise up on my elbows to watch my own children.

Teddy's brown head lowers in concentration as he industriously digs a moat around a meticulously crafted sand castle. Thin and tanned, he reminds me of myself when I was six. I can remember how serious I was, determined to make my fortress impregnable to attack, although against what foe I cannot recall—perhaps an army of territorial sand crabs.

In the distance, I see Nymphadora walking with Siri, who at four is a "big girl" and proud to lug her own pail of water from the ocean. Mother and daughter both have shoulder-length black hair and pink bathing suits, because, in the words of my brown-eyed girl, "Mum and I are twins today."

My wife claps a hand over her mouth when our child tries to dump the water into the moat and splashes her brother instead. I fight back a smile as my normally even-tempered son grabs a handful of wet sand and throws it at his sister.

"Daddy!" Siri hollers, wiping sticky grains off her chest, balling her little hands into fists.

I rise to my feet, strolling over to pick up my scowling angel. "Let's go clean you off in the sea."

Mercurially shifting mood like her mother, Siri grins. "In the deep water?"

I look into eyes resembling my own. "After you apologise."

"I'm sorry, Teddy!"

Nymphadora pulls Teddy to his feet. "Last ones to the ocean are rotten fish!"

Two sets of dark blue eyes sparkle with mischief. Mother and son dash toward the surf.

Siri clutches my neck tightly as I begin to run. "Catch them, Daddy!"

I catch them. Nymphadora meets my eye and laughs.

The four of us reach the water at the same time.

After we bathe in the sea and relax upon the shore, it is time to go home. Mrs. MacLean beams when she answers Teddy's knock on the back door. As always, she coincidentally happens to have just conjured a batch of chocolate chip biscuits. My children rush into the kitchen in their eagerness to be official tasters.

Nymphadora and I enter, accepting a warm, soft biscuit with almost as much eagerness as Siri and Teddy. We could have Apparated with the children. Other parents do. It is perfectly safe with the correct precautions. I simply choose to Floo.

The MacLeans have called my decision "proper Fatherly concern." My wife calls it "adorable Anxious-Daddy Syndrome." I call it prudence. My children are energetic, and Siri, especially, is prone to wriggle. If she dropped a sand toy and broke the parental hold upon Apparation, the consequences would be too terrible to contemplate.

I have lost too many special people in my life not to heed Mad-Eye's directive of constant vigilance.

Once we step onto the hearth of our whitewashed cottage, Siri and Nymphadora head to the upstairs bath while Teddy and I stow away the beach gear and wash our hands in the kitchen. He sets the table as I use a Heating Charm on the pot of soup stored in the coolant cabinet.

There is only one full bath in our home, so we take turns showering and doing our part to make dinner. When the girls come downstairs, they will make toasted cheese sandwiches and fill colourful mismatched glasses with pumpkin juice. Siri will run outside and pick wildflowers to put in a vase in the middle of the table because she likes to make things pretty.

After a meal filled with lively conversation and laughter over our race to the ocean, I clear the dishes while Nymphadora oversees the children washing their hands and faces and brushing their teeth. I climb the stairs with a feeling of anticipation.

When I walk through the door to the master bedroom, I see the three I love most in the world propped up on white pillows, Siri giggling over the pig snout her mother has morphed.

Teddy sees me and grins. "Read us a story, Daddy!"

I climb into bed and open the book my son places on my lap, unsurprised to see the picture of a girl in a red riding hood on the front cover. My children find it very amusing. So does my wife, whose lace nightgown is a splash of red against our white duvet. Secretly, I do, too, although I growl to make Siri and Teddy laugh. With a glance to assure my love that I will gobble her up later, I open the book and begin to read.

At this moment in my daydream, the scene always becomes hazy. Although I am tempted to continue, my mind will only allow so much fantasy before steering my thoughts back to reality.

The war is not over. Nymphadora and I have duties and missions that ensure marriage and children will remain daydreams indefinitely. Thankfully, she is young, and is satisfied with being mates, joined in our hearts.

I hope that one day I will turn back to this entry and marvel how closely it mirrors our lives, even if we live in the city and only visit the island on holiday. Putting aside my doubts and fears, I hope.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This goes with ch 31 of Moonlight and Shadow. Tonks is on bereavement leave, which she and Remus spend at the place where they first joined in body as well as heart.


	22. Reality

 

 

_July 1997,_

 

Between my dreams of what could be and my fears lies reality. Neither rosy as an image of the future, nor bleak like visions of war, my life is one of mingled joy and sorrow that I would not trade for any other.

I only wish it did not have to change so soon after Sirius's death.

While still grappling with loss, Nymphadora and I have found solace in our love. A beloved friend is gone, but we still have each other. A smile, a touch, or an exchange of understanding looks cushions grief. In the past, I was alone. I coped with the blows life dealt me by retreating into my studies and books. Now, while I read, I feel the warmth of my love beside me. A small thing, perhaps, but it has made all the difference.

I know that my presence is equally comforting to Nymphadora. We often fall asleep holding hands, our fingers entwined like our hearts. Sometimes in the night, I wake when she presses against my back or snuggles close to my side, draping her leg across my thigh and resting her hand on my chest. It makes me smile to hear her sigh contentedly.

In a few days, however, my side of the bed will be empty. I won't be there when nightmares disturb her sleep, or sad thoughts cause her breath to hitch in the darkness. I will be over three hundred kilometres away in Salford, wishing I had the ability to Apparate across long distances.

It could be worse. Although the nature of my mission rules out normal correspondence, I am grateful that our Melusine Mirrors will allow me to see Nymphadora's face, hear her voice, and to tell her that I love her.

I am unsure when we will be able to see each other in person once I leave. Young Will Hughes, who seems enthused only by the thought of gaining a flatmate who will take over the cleaning, informed me in his last letter that pack approval is required before my partner may visit. I have put off sharing that bit of information with my love. Anger will not change the situation, and sparks of temper are not the kind I want to fly between us.

Selfishly, I have allowed Nymphadora to decline invitations from friends and family in order to spend her free hours with me. She said she wasn't ready to socialise yet—that aside from our occasional dinners with her parents, who regularly invite Cami as well as Morty, Lisa, and their baby, she prefers quiet evenings.

Most days, that consists of a stroll to pick up takeaway or a stop by the market to purchase ingredients for dinner. Our meals are never elaborate or costly, but the time we share is invaluable.

The simple, nightly routine is a reminder that life goes on.

When I am in Salford and Nymphadora is in London, I will find satisfaction in preparing dinner, remembering the time she joked that she was better at throwing knives than chopping with them, or when we forgot to buy Chinese noodles and used fettuccini instead for Beef Chow Mein.

Like the fettuccini, memories are only a passable substitute, but as I have discovered over time, happy recollections make the hollow feeling of solitude less painful. In contrast to the memory of my parents, Lily and James, and Sirius, thoughts of my mate bring a sense of anticipation.

Our parting is only temporary. Soon, she will visit me or I will come to her. As sure as the moon will rise, we will be together.

Tonight, we'll create another memory to make the wait a little easier to bear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this journal entry made readers eager to read the transition from OotP to HBP one shot _Wish Upon a Dog Star_. : )

**Author's Note:**

> I’d been looking to find a way to express Remus's pov on a regular basis and came up with this. The journal entries will be around 500 words each and will parallel _Moonlight and Shadow._ This entry corresponds to chapter nine when Tonks felt the effects of the Up-And-At-Em pills. :D


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